


The Tale of the Snake and the Hare

by Wil



Category: Le Morte d'Arthur
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wil/pseuds/Wil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Arthur leaves, interactions between Guinevere and Mordred gain in complexity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tale of the Snake and the Hare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pitseleh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitseleh/gifts).



> Birthday fic for [](http://pitselly.livejournal.com/profile)[**pitselly**](http://pitselly.livejournal.com/)

It was a cool night in Camelot. In the room, somewhere, Guinevere was sleeping. Today, Mordred had almost touched her face, today but she had only looked at him in disgust and called him Nephew, and he had bristled, as he did every time.

  
And now, he was fretful and restless, pacing his own cold room, keeping well away from his own cold bed. His eyes felt impatient – it seemed he couldn't quite be bothered to look at anything without feeling an urge to destroy it, and he was unable to stand the idea that anyone might know he was raving in the middle of the night.

He looked out the window, scanning the landscape, and imagined her. There were moments during which his father's wife looked girlish – pure, even. In those instances, he wanted to grab her and ravage her lips in a pure act of possession. His hand flexed against the window frame and he frowned at himself. Stupid little tart. She had no understanding of anything – unlike his mother, his aunt, she was just a little altar whore. Tomorrow, he would grab her after the morning service and have his way. Tomorrow.

***

Mass was ending and Guinevere had once again prayed for forgiveness. She had felt uncomfortable, as of late. Her husband's touches were gentle, but they did not make her feel as fretful and vulnerable as her lover's did. Lancelot was away, she knew – another quest, another adventure, away from her and from court. Best it be that way, perhaps, but it make her heart ache all the same.

  
Leaning against the columns, there was a dark shape. He looked at her, she tried to avoid looking at him. Always such a cocky smile, that boy had. He looked like a cat, waiting to play with a mouse, and for a split second, she thought he didn't look unpleasant to the eye. Sleek black hair and a nonchalant pause, as if he were on the verge of some well-planned mischief. She wondered how his kisses were, fleetingly, and if he loved anyone. The thought perished as it rose in her fancies.

  
He walked behind her, stalking, almost, sleek like a snake, quiet like a mountain cat, hungry like a hound on a warm scent. She shivered, despite herself.

  
“Your Majesty,” he said, quietly. “Will you not accept an escort?” The emphasis on the last word seemed almost obscene, but maybe it was a figment of her imagination.

  
“I can well walk where I will,” she replied, quietly. “I reckon the hallways are safe enough, Sir Mordred.”

  
He smiled amiably, though it seemed there was something flashing in his eyes – anger, perhaps? She could hardly tell. Her eyes strayed to his lips, absently, and she saw them curl up in a predatory smirk.

  
“Oh, are they, my Queen?” His voice was a low rumble, and she took a deep breath, frowning.

  
“Yes, it is,” she said, firmly, a bit flippantly. “Now, if you will excuse me, your uncle awaits me, my nephew.” She tried to leave, but he had her arm, and held her in place, firmly.

“Oh, is that so? What for, Guinevere?” He used her familiar and it was almost a caress, a hiss, like a serpent about to bite.

“For nothing that concerns you, Mordred,” she spat back. “Let me go.”

***

Mordred let her go, and as she walked away, his eyes raked her lithe frame. Not bad, for a married broad, he mused. Not bad at all.

She wanted him. He felt it. He knew it. There was something in the way she'd looked at him, wide-eyed like a lost hare, that had satisfied him terribly.

For today, it was enough. There would plenty more time to play with her, he decided.

Plenty of it.


End file.
